


Severus’s Story (or, A Hero’s Tale)

by avioleta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, First Time, Literature, M/M, Masturbation, Powerful Harry Potter, Secret Snarry Swap 2019, Severus Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21901402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioleta/pseuds/avioleta
Summary: When Harry Potter asks for help with a case, Severus finds he must deal with some very old magic, a bit of medieval romance, and far more heroism than he would like.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 66
Kudos: 539
Collections: Secret Snarry Swap19





	Severus’s Story (or, A Hero’s Tale)

**Author's Note:**

> The few quotes from **Sir Gawain and the Green Knight** are from Marie Borroff’s translation of the poem. Thank you to the mods for the generous extension, for their skilled and quick proofing and edits, and for the wonderful lists of potential titles. Final title credit goes to Lilyseyes. 
> 
> Prompt No. 32 from torino10154: Harry realises what he's been looking for has been there all along.

Severus Snape has read all the stories. Stories of legend and of history. Stories of folklore and of myth. Stories of giants and faeries, of kings and queens. Stories of gods and devils, villains and heroes. 

There are always heroes. 

Our literary canon is filled with heroes. A plethora of heroes. Too many bloody heroes, if you ask Severus. 

Severus doesn’t like heroes. 

No, that’s a lie. Severus doesn’t _want_ to like heroes. 

So much can hinge on a single word. 

Severus, always the academic, also the chemist, knows this as well as anyone. 

He is not a hero. But he is not a villain either. His life is steeped in ambiguity. In infinite shades of grey. 

Where does Severus’s own story begin? 

Cokeworth seems the logical place. The brown river that runs through the town stinks of refuse and fish. Most nights his father comes home late, smelling of sweat and stale beer. His mother loves Severus. Protects him when she can. But she spends most of her time nestled away in the small sitting room writing spells, and Severus knows, _knows_ he is meant for something more. 

So then his story must begin at Hogwarts. He is eleven. An ancient, arguably senile hat shouts ‘Slytherin’—instead of say, Ravenclaw or, Merlin forbid, Gryffindor—across a crowded hall. 

He will never forget the look on Lily’s face as he walks past. 

Lucius Malfoy, always supercilious, always self-serving, extends a hand. 

Dumbledore once said they sorted too soon. Severus thinks he might have done well in Ravenclaw. 

But say his story doesn’t start there at all. 

Does it start in Wiltshire? He is eighteen. Tom Riddle touches his forehead, then his arm. 

The pain of the Mark burns bone deep. 

There is Champagne. Some vintage pulled from the depths of Abraxas’s wine cellars. And caviar. Cold shrimp on ice. But Severus can’t stomach any of it. He spends the entirety of the party retching in one of the Manor’s many bathrooms. 

Or maybe his story begins at Godric’s Hollow. He twenty-one and Lily is dead. Severus, angry and heartbroken—so heartbroken—makes a pledge to Dumbledore. He will play the spy. Protect the boy. 

Beginnings aside, there was a time when he knew how his story was supposed to end. 

It is 2 May, and he is thirty-eight. 

There is a battle raging on outside, but inside the shack it is suffocating and still. The Dark Lord’s magic is like a poison in the air. But for once Severus can breathe. For once he knows there is nothing left for him to do. No one left to save. 

But there’s the snake, polluted by soul magic, grown accustomed to the taste of human flesh. Nagini will forever be the stuff of Severus’s nightmares. Dreams haunted by yellowed eyes, the slither of scales. Clotted blood in his mouth, the bitter taste of antivenin on his tongue. Too little, too late, until...

Because, yes, rather than ending as the story damn well should have done, there is yet another beginning. This one filled with blood—so much more blood—but also blue light, a healing rush of magic, and the boy. Of course it is Potter, smelling of sweat and earth and soot and radiating so much bloody power it’s enough to make Severus sick, if he weren’t already dying that is. 

So, Severus supposes you could say his story begins three days after it was supposed to end, in a private room at St. Mungo’s. Severus wakes to stark artificial light. Bleached white sheets. The cloying smell of antiseptic. And Harry bloody Potter asleep in the bedside chair, a vial full of memories clutched in his hand. 

Harry Potter. That damnable, impetuous, foolhardy son of his father... No. That’s not right. Sometimes we get it wrong. Sometimes stories need to be rewritten. And Severus knows a thing or two about revisions. 

Or maybe his story finally starts two years later, in a shop in Diagon Alley. 

Yes, Severus thinks, that’s as good a place as any to begin. 

***

It’s been one year, three months, one week—no two—since Severus has seen Harry Potter. He would like to pretend he hasn’t been counting, but that would be a lie. 

Potter’s got a child on his hip. All dimpled smile and toothless grin. Biscuit crumbs smeared across a cheek. His father’s child to be sure. Skin the colour of milk. Hair like raven feathers. 

“You haven’t met my son. This is James.” Potter beams, flashing eyes and brilliant teeth. If you could be blinded by parental pride...

The child must be nearly a year now. It was quite the story when Ginevra fell pregnant mere moments after completing her seventh year. It would have been a scandal, too, had Potter been anyone other than Boy Hero, Saviour of the fucking world. But such details—a protagonist’s trials and tribulations, his accomplishments and daring feats—are never ignored. And, on the scale of public opinion, every action is weighed and measured. An unexpected pregnancy, an unwed teenage couple are nothing when held up to ending a war, to killing the devil himself.

Severus doesn’t think they ever married. “And how is your wife?” he asks, enjoying the faint flush that seeps across Potter’s cheeks. 

But then the man smiles, forest green eyes locking on Severus’s black ones. “Come now, Snape. I think you know we didn’t marry. The papers got that part right at least.”

“I see.”

“But we’re not together anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.” And is there the hint of something there? Defiance? A challenge? But Potter shifts the child to his other hip and shrugs. “It was never going to work between us.”

“Oh.” Severus feels distinctly uncomfortable standing next to this man. This _hero_ with broad shoulders and skin like milk and honey and that cherubic child in his arms. Severus in contrast—sunless and lacking—stands out like a sore thumb, like spoiled milk, like an Unforgivable, with his lank hair and his tattooed arm and his decades of regret. 

“So, Professor, how have you been?”

“I can’t imagine, Mr. Potter, why you feel that’s any of your business.” Severus forces his best glare, laces the words with a bitterness he does not feel. It’s foolish, of course; the man’s question is innocuous at best. 

_Careful, Severus, or your tongue will slice the roof of your mouth._

But Potter doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t tell him to sod off. There are no rude gestures or frowns or scowls. No, he doesn’t do any of one hundred things Severus doesn’t want him to do. He only smiles again, runs his free hand through dark hair, and says, “Maybe so, Severus, maybe so. But there was a time when we were friends.” 

***

 _There was a time when they were friends._ The boy—the man, Severus corrects—is not wrong. 

It is after the war. After Severus’s story should have ended. After they both should have died, but when Severus, instead, wakes up in St. Mungo’s with Harry bloody Potter at his side. Harry bloody Potter, who wants nothing more, it seems, than to talk...and talk and talk. 

Talk about death and about war and about Unforgivables. Talk about the Dark Lord and about Horcruxes. About Lily and Albus. Talk about Weasley after Weasley after god forsaken Weasley...

Talk about whatever the fuck they are supposed to do next. 

At first Severus is silent. 

Then he is reticent. Easy enough when recovering from a throat wound. But then...

Then Severus realises he enjoys Potter’s company. Against all odds—against every fibre of his being—the boy’s inane prattle about red heads and Aurors, about mortality and about magic comes as a welcome distraction. And, if Severus doesn’t look forward to when the brat invariably turns up in his hospital room (and then later, his dungeons at Hogwarts), he doesn’t discourage him either. 

The boy’s story is already the stuff of legend, but he doesn’t speak like a hero—absorbed in the details of his own accomplishments, rolling his words with careless ease. Rather, he is unassuming and soft spoken. At times he is funny, and always with just a hint of sarcasm that Severus can’t help but appreciate. 

And, after his throat heals and he can no longer use the excuse of traumatic injury to avoid conversation, Severus finds himself contributing more and more to their exchanges. Finds himself peppering in details of his own story—a sentence here, a footnote there.

It is, for lack of a better word, cathartic. 

And while Severus will never admit it—not then, not now, not ever—there is a moment when it seems Potter may be looking for something more. But the idea was as absurd then as it is today because—while we’ve established that Severus is not actually a villain—Potter was, is, and always will be a hero. And heroes are meant for better stuff. 

So he pushes the boy away. 

It is easy enough. Severus is used to that kind of thing. Holding people at arm’s length. Showing his teeth. Never letting on that you might care. 

And, with distance comes power. 

To be close to someone is to have weakness. To be exposed. Bare the neck, reveal the soft underbelly. Don’t allow them under your skin or into your head (and certainly not into your heart). 

Even the strongest wizards don’t perform their best at close range. No. You need room to manoeuvre and, always—always—a means to escape. Severus never enters a room in which he doesn’t count the exits, note the best way out. He never sits with his back towards the door. 

So he lays the groundwork: A barb here, a disparaging remark there. It is easy to make the boy feel unwanted. Severus with his venomed tongue, all the while counting smiles, knowing they are numbered. And, little by little, Potter starts spending less time in the dungeons, and more time in Gryffindor with Ginevra Weasley. 

***

It is three days after Severus sees Potter in Diagon Alley that magic starts to go a bit wonky. 

It begins innocently enough. A first year Hufflepuff explodes a tureen of mashed potatoes at dinnertime. Accidental magic is still common at that age. Hell, Severus has third and fourth years with only a modicum more control. But power accidentally used is still contingent on how much power the wizard possesses. And this particular child barely has power enough to levitate a feather. Exploding cookware is another story altogether. 

Pomona gives the boy detention. Intentional or not, you can’t overlook such things when others could be hurt. Minerva thinks nothing else of it. But when the child arrives at his office door, Severus doesn’t send him to scrub cauldrons or wipe down lab tables. Rather, he sets a large serving platter in front of him and says, “Do it again.”

The boy frowns, bites his lip. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“I said, Do it again.”

The child is confused. Severus can’t blame him, but he’s never had much patience for such things. “Must I spell it out for you? Draw your wand and explode the platter as you did in the Great Hall.” He sits back in his chair, folds his arms across his chest. 

The boy’s fingers shake as he pulls his wand from his pocket. “You mean...?”

Severus nods. “Yes, get on with it.”

It’s nearly painful to watch as the child scrunches his face, holds his breath, makes stabbing motions with his wand in the platter’s general direction. 

“Did you use a spell?” Severus asks, after enduring several seconds of this charade. 

“A spell?”

For Merlin’s sake, he sounds as though he’s never heard of the notion. “Yes, a spell. You are a wizard, are you not?”

The boy looks unsure. Bites his lip again. The platter remains motionless on the table between them. 

“ _Confringo, Reducto, Incendio_ … Hell, even a _Stupefy_ could work if you aimed it just right.” 

“I haven’t learned those yet, sir.” 

Severus presses fingers to his temples. A headache threatens. “No, I don’t imagine you have.”

He allows the child to do homework for the remainder of his detention. Albus would say he’s getting soft, but he has bigger concerns at the moment. The castle lies on magical fault lines. Magic flows through the walls the way blood flows through your veins. Press your hand against cool stone. Run your fingers along the crevices. If you listen, you can hear it pumping like a heartbeat. 

And Severus knows how to listen. 

He also knows the places it runs the thickest. The places it pools and coalesces. Where you can breathe it in. Feel it in the palms of your hands, the soles of your feet. Where it makes your hair stand on end before you’ve even considered casting a spell. Severus knows all these things. And he knows that the magic has felt...different lately. 

His potions classes are evidence enough. Students with sufficient technical skill but unremarkable power are suddenly able to prepare exemplary potions—potions of quality unequal to the magic the brewer possesses and potions, sadly, not replicated in subsequent classes. And, contrarily, when potions go wrong—which they do with depressing regularity—they go spectacularly wrong. 

Then there are the stories from the hallways, the dormitories. Stories of students performing spells that, by all rights, they should be incapable of performing. Spells that, thankfully, they seem unable to perform again. 

Minerva and Filius check the castle’s warding, fearful that the magic might be leaching from Hogwarts’s protections, but all is as it should be. Aurora, always mindful of the stars, believes the impending solstice could be the cause. But when she consults Firenze, he merely frowns and says the solstice isn’t at fault. Still, the centaurs feel the magic. It’s in the air and in the ground. The Forbidden Forest is saturated with it in a way the forest—always alive with power—has not been in recent memory. 

But centaurs do not see the world as men do. And their sense of urgency—if they ever feel urgency at all—is not the same as ours. So while Firenze assures he’ll keep an eye out, Severus knows it could be weeks or months, if they hear anything back at all. 

Severus’s own magic is strong. But Severus has always been strong, and there is little magic he hasn’t mastered. Still, there are moments when he _knows_ he could reach out and grab a tendril of the castle’s power—power that should be flowing through earth and rock deep below the castle’s foundation, not his for the taking—and use it as his own. 

Three nights later, Severus returns to his office after rounds to find Potter waiting for him. The man’s robe is off, thrown haphazardly across the sofa back, and he’s sitting at Severus’s desk eating a meat pasty.

“How did you get in here?” The war has been over for nearly three years, but Severus never leaves his rooms unwarded and he knows the protection spells are still in place. 

“So you’ve noticed, then,” Potter says, ignoring the question. He pops the last bite of pasty into his mouth, sucks grease off his fingers. 

“I am no longer a spy, Potter, but I haven’t gone blind. It would be difficult not to notice a man in my rooms uninvited, getting crumbs all over my desk.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” He brushes the crumbs away before crumpling the piece of waxed paper wrapping. He banishes the rubbish to the bin with a casual flick of his wrist. 

“My wards, Mr. Potter,” Severus prompts, when no explanation appears on offer. 

“Right,” Potter says, looking towards the door as though the answer might be written there. “I just...walked through.”

“You just walked through?”

“Yeah. I mean, I could have dismantled them, of course. Would have taken me some time, though—good wards you’ve got there.”

 _Of course._ Severus attempts a scowl but he knows it’s not terribly convincing. They _are_ good wards...and Potter is one of very few people who could, no doubt, disassemble them. He sighs and sits down on the sofa. “But you didn’t take down my wards.”

“No, I just bypassed them.” Potter cocks his head to one side. “That’s why I’m here.”

Severus thinks he understands. “The magic.”

“So you _have_ noticed,” he asks again.

He nods. “Yes, but Hogwarts has extraordinary magic. There are always ebbs and flows. It is expected that there are times as these when it is at a height.”

“True,” says Potter, “but it’s not just here.”

Oh. Severus is surprised to find he hadn’t considered the possibility. “Where else?”

“Glasgow, Edinburgh, Newcastle, Leeds, Manchester...” Potter ticks the locations off on his fingers. “Not as far south as London, yet, but it’s...problematic to put things mildly.”

Severus can imagine. He thinks of the discipline issues they’ve had in the controlled environment of Hogwarts. And they’re dealing with children who have neither the wherewithal to understand the possibilities or the training to make it happen. “I don’t envy you.”

Potter shrugs. “It’s what I signed up for. Besides,” he smiles, “I like the challenge. But I could use your help.” 

Severus nods. Leans forwards to rest his elbows on his knees. “What do you need?”

“I’m not sure yet. Eat dinner with me tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Severus ignores how much the idea pleases him. 

“Okay, good. Now I need to go talk to Nearly Headless Nick.”

Before Severus can ask what the hell the man wants with the ghost, Potter stands and purses his lips. “I think I can just...”

“Don’t do it Potter,” Severus warns, “it’s not—”

But Potter is already turning on the spot, Apparating through Hogwarts’s anti-Apparition wards as though they’re not there at all. 

***

“Beheaded?”

Potter nods. “Three victims. All men in their early twenties. Wizards. Magic practically oozing from the scene. All found in the same place—middle of nowhere, Staffordshire. But the medi-examiner says they all died at different times. And no magic involved in the actual deaths. Just a good, old fashion axe.”

Severus swallows. Resists the impulse to touch his own neck, to trace the ropy scars there. “Lovely.”

“I know, right?” Potter takes a swig of his beer. They’re at an Italian place in Hogsmeade that Severus has never been to, a place he, frankly, did not even know existed until Potter asked to meet there. But the restaurants in the village come and go and the only establishment here that Severus visits with any regularity is the Hog’s Head. 

“Nick didn’t know anything, which, admittedly, was a bit disappointing,” Potter continues, shaking his head. “If I had a Galleon for all the stories of decapitation I’ve heard from him over the years...” He grimaces. “Unsolicited stories, I might add. Anyway, I hoped he might have some insider knowledge, but,” Potter shrugs. 

“Give him a decade or so, and he might,” Severus says. “Ghosts are unreliable at best and no longer bound by our measures of time. Ten, twenty years is nothing; it’s best not to expect information on current matters or in a timely fashion.” 

The waiter appears before anything else can be said. Severus orders a margherita pizza and another glass of mediocre Cabernet. Potter selects the Bolognese. 

When they are alone again, Severus looks at Potter. He hasn’t been a boy since he learned he was fated to die, since he was tasked with killing a madman, since he succeeded in doing the impossible. But now Severus sees it clearly in the set of his shoulders, the purple circles beneath his eyes, the stubble that lines his jaw. “So why are you telling me this?” No, Potter has not shared any particularly sensitive information, and Severus knows he is able to take certain liberties not afforded to the average Auror. But the man, presumably, has a team of the Ministry’s finest at his disposal and it’s been over a year since he last came to Severus for anything at all. 

Potter sets his beer down, scratches at the label with his thumbnail. “I think it’s connected—the magic and my murders. And while my team can handle murder—even of the axe variety—advanced magical theory isn’t really anyone’s strong suit. Except for me, of course.” He smiles, showing all of his teeth. “But you know I need someone to talk these things through. And Hermione’s an Unspeakable now. They’re not too keen on lending their own out...especially to the Aurors for crime solving.” He rolls his eyes. “Far too plebeian and shit.”

Severus can’t help but laugh at that. “Tell me what you know.” 

Potter does. 

Their food arrives. Severus’s pizza is surprisingly good. Thin crust, fresh basil. Cheese slips from a slice as he picks it up; he watches Potter twirl pasta around his fork. Severus has a third glass of wine and does not think about how much he enjoys the company. 

After they pay, after Potter pulls a handful of Galleons from his pocket and cites Auror business—though Severus knows he will not file an expense report—they walk together through the village. The storefronts and lampposts are decked with fairy lights. Christmas trees line the path. 

“It’s nice out,” Potter says; his words form white puffs in the air. Severus shoves his hands in his pockets and grunts in agreement. The night is crisp and clear. It smells like snow. When they reach the edge of town, Severus turns towards the castle, as Potter Apparates away. 

***

It’s not until the following evening that Severus puts two and two together. 

There’s a bookshelf in his bedroom filled with Muggle literature. Prose and poetry, novels and plays. Pulpy fiction and literary anthologies, murder mysteries and sci-fi mixed in with classics. He finds what he is looking for and takes the slim text out to his sitting room. Then he sends a Patronus to Potter. 

A few minutes later his Floo buzzes. Potter’s head appears. “Do you mind coming through? I’ve got Jamie tonight.”

Severus nods. Potter disappears but leaves the connection open. Severus slips the book into his jacket pocket and steps into the flames. 

He finds himself in a small living room. The room is cozy, lit only by the flames of the fire Severus has emerged from and the Christmas tree—strung with coloured lights—that stands in the corner.

Potter’s sitting on the floor by the coffee table. He’s dressed casually in loose trousers and a t-shirt with a graphic too faded for Severus to read. His feet are bare. The table is spread with file jackets and papers, and he smiles when Severus appears. 

“Hey,” he says, face lit by the warmth of the fire. “Thank you.”

Severus steps over a pile of blocks, sits down beside him. “How often do you have your son?”

“It used to be alternating weekends, but now it’s more often. Whenever Gin’s away for matches. She wanted to get back into Quidditch and the Harpies signed her out of open tryouts. She’s their backup Seeker, and they travel a lot during the season.” He shrugs. “But it was too good an opportunity for her to pass up and I love having James more.” 

“And when you’re at work?”

“Molly keeps him. She’s wonderful. Always happy to have him. So what did you find?”

Severus pulls the book from his pocket. 

“ _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_?” 

“Yes.” Severus explains: “It’s a medieval text written by an anonymous author. Tells the story of Sir Gawain, Arthur’s nephew and beloved knight. At Christmastime, a mysterious—and clearly magical—Green Knight appears in Arthur’s court and proposes a game of sorts: Anyone may take the Green Knight’s axe and deliver a blow—if they vow to allow the Green Knight to do the same in return.” He runs his fingers along the book’s spine. “To prevent Arthur from accepting the challenge—from putting his life in danger—Gawain volunteers. He picks up the axe and cuts the Green Knight’s head off with one sure stroke...only to watch the Knight pick his head up again and climb back on his horse. Before he rides away, he tells Gawain he will see him in a year and a day so Gawain can fulfil his pledge.”

Severus reads:

_“‘Sir Gawain, forget not to go as agreed,  
And cease not to seek till me, sir, you find,  
As you promised in the presence of these proud knights.  
To the Green Chapel come, I charge you to take  
Such a blow as you bestowed—you deserve, beyond doubt,  
A knock on your neck next New Year’s morn.’”_

“And he goes?”

“Of course. Gawain was bound by honour and the codes of chivalry. So the following year, he sets out from Camelot to find the Green Knight and uphold his oath.”

“And get his head chopped off,” Potter says with a grimace.

Severus frowns, “Well, no. Gawain is tested throughout the ordeal and, in the end, receives only a superficial wound on his neck for his efforts. He returns home to Camelot a hero.”

Potter considers the information for a moment. “But my victims very much lost their heads. They’re all dead.” He bites at the inside of his cheek, tilts his head to one side. “Not a hero in the lot of them, apparently.”

“No,” Severus agrees. “Apparently not.”

“There’s something else though,” Potter says, “that made you think of Gawain.” And Severus is reminded of when they used to talk. When understanding each other seemed as easy as breathing. 

“Yes. The location. Though the poet remains unknown, his dialect places him in the Northwest Midlands and details from the text itself confirm this.”

“Staffordshire,” Potter says. 

“Yes. The poem vividly describes the landscape of the region. There is much speculation as to the whereabouts of the Green Chapel itself, but the two most likely places are thought to be Lud’s Church or Wetton Mill. Both of which are in Staffordshire.”

Potter considers this for a moment, and then nods. “Okay.”

“Can you take me to where the bodies were found?”

“Yeah,” Potter says, “I can, but not tonight. Tonight we need Firewhisky.” 

***

They land on a hillside banked with snow. It’s cold, but the air is not as biting as it is in the Highlands. 

“This way,” Potter says. Briefly, his hand falls to Severus’s back and then it’s gone again. 

They walk down a rocky slope towards the valley below. Severus hears water and knows what they’ll see before they approach. A mound of rock with a chasm cut in one side.

Water sheets down the surface, bubbles into the streambed below. 

“This is the place,” Severus says, voice softer than he intends. 

“From the poem?”

“Yes.”

There is magic here. It shimmers all around. Severus feels it in the air, breathes it into his lungs. “You put up containment spells?”

“Yes.” Potter nods. “But they won’t hold long. There is too much magic here. Old magic.”

“It’s seeping into the ground,” Severus says. “This has to be what’s causing the imbalance.”

“I thought so,” says Potter. “But I don’t know why.”

“You asked why I thought of Sir Gawain. There was more to it than the cause of death and location. Muggles believe the story only legend. But we know that legends, like all stories, are often grounded in truth. And in this particular legend, Morgan Le Fay is responsible for the magic that transforms the Green Knight.”

“Morgan Le Fay...” Potter says. “I know her.”

“Half sister of Arthur. Daughter of Igraine and her first husband, Gorlois. Trained by Viviane and likely Merlin himself. Our history says that her magic was second to only his.” Severus pauses, looks around. Under the lattice of Potter’s magic, he feels the pulse of something else. “And if the magic that caused that spellwork has somehow resurfaced...”

“People will likely continue to die,” Potter says, “among other things.”

“Yes, among other things.”

“So how do we stop it? My containment spells are good but they’re only temporary.” 

Severus thinks, “In the poem, the magic disappears once the spell runs its course.”

“To what end?”

“The testing of the hero. Though Morgan also took pleasure in the fright the ordeal at Camelot gave to Guinevere.” 

Severus hears it then, a blade on a grindstone. The whirring echoes around him, sets his teeth on edge.

Potter draws his wand, stands stock still listening. “What is that?”

“An axe,” Severus says, voice barely a whisper. “And our cue to go.” Without another word, he takes Potter’s arm in his and they Disapparate away. 

***

When Severus tells his story, how will he decide what parts to include, what parts to leave out?

Will he tell of the days they spend researching? First at Hogwarts, and then at the Ministry. 

Research, in and of itself, is not a remarkable detail. In any other circumstance, it would hardly be worth noting. After all, in the academic community, Severus is considered one of the premier researchers in England. It’s part of the minutiae, a thread woven through his day-to-day life. As common as eating. As magic. As breathing. But now...

He tells himself it is the case. The magic and story are intriguing. But Severus knows—if he’s being honest—that it has more to do with Potter. 

Will Severus mention the point he realises he’s watching himself around the man? That he’s marking his mannerisms, his expressions. Paying attention to the way the words sound on his tongue. There was a time when Severus could have truthfully said he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. (He had bigger concerns, after all.) But now, he knows that’s no longer true. 

In the library at Hogwarts, they find a considerable amount of information on Arthurian legend. Severus supposes this is unsurprising. Merlin is, after all, a key part of magical history. And, presuming Morgan did learn her magic from Merlin, it is likely that the spellwork she used on the Green Knight went far beyond transfiguration. Rather, Severus believes she wove reincarnation and resurrection magic into the spells. And that type of magic never truly disappears. 

At the Ministry, Potter leads Severus through a maze of corridors to the Department of Records. The reading room is unoccupied, save for the wizard manning the circulation desk. They put in their requests, and the man checks Potter’s credentials. Then they sit at the long table and wait for their texts to appear. 

Books and scrolls materialise. Severus takes one, Potter another. Together they read. 

When a particularly sensitive manuscript appears in front of them with two pair of white gloves beside, Potter slips them on without hesitation, without question as to their purpose or necessity. 

He has done this before. 

The realisation should not startle Severus. The man is also premier in his field. Rumour has it, Potter is on track to become the youngest Head Auror ever appointed. Severus does not doubt this. Gawain Robards is a joke. Potter, at twenty-one, already has more responsibilities. Already heads the most important, the most challenging cases. Already is the one whose knowledge, whose magic is looked to before anyone else’s in the department. 

And Severus has known for quite a while that Potter is nothing like the recalcitrant student he once knew. 

Yes, Severus thinks this would make for a significant passage in his tale. 

And then there’s the way he notices Potter looking at him, too. Potter’s eyes are so damn green and Severus feels their gaze like a brand against his skin. 

They eat dinner together. One night at Hogwarts, where Severus orders soup and sandwiches to his rooms. He opens a bottle of wine and they discuss magic. 

Another night he comes to Potter’s flat. The child is there. James eats applesauce and crackers shaped like fish while Severus and Potter review the notes they’ve made.

Potter orders takeaway. Leaves Severus with James while he Apparates six blocks away to collect their dinner. At first the boy eyes him suspiciously. “As you should,” Severus agrees. But then the child procures a ball from the basket of toys in the corner. Flings it across the room and giggles hysterically when Severus retrieves it. Severus rolls it back to him and James does it again. This time Severus _Accios_ the ball and finds himself oddly pleased when James claps his appreciation. 

They are building a block tower when Potter reappears, arms laden with Chinese takeaway. James knocks the building down, shrieks _“Ba Ba Ba,_ ” and grins at his father. 

“Yeah,” Potter says with a smile, “best I can tell, _Ba_ means ‘block,’ ‘more,’ ‘baby,’ ‘ball’ and, sometimes, ‘James.’ Among other things.” 

They eat beef and broccoli and sweet and sour chicken out of paper containers. Potter drips sauce down the front of his jumper, wipes at it with his fingers, smearing it further. “Shit,” he says, sucking his fingers into his mouth, reaching for a napkin. Severus finds himself staring at the man’s lips. He looks away, but not before Potter notices. 

And Severus knows, _knows_ now that the man’s mere presence sparks something in his very veins. It’s something he long has tried to ignore, to bury down deep within him where it belongs. After all, he’s far too old for this. Romances are not for him; it’s never been a part of his story arc. And Death Eaters turned spies don’t end up with heroes. Still, Severus can no longer ignore the feeling that blooms in the pit of his stomach whenever Potter looks at him. 

Potter grabs two beers from the fridge. James eats a few spoonsful of white rice before demanding more crackers. Potter obliges, arranging some fish in a line along the edge of the coffee table. The child crawls over, pulls himself up, and proceeds to shove a fistful into his mouth all at once. 

“No!” Potter scolds. “We’ve talked about this. You need to chew.” James grins, mouth full of cracker. Potter hands him his water cup.

James spends the next quarter hour pulling Potter’s case files off the table and cackling when Potter restacks them neatly again and again. “It’s a game,” he says. “Kid thinks he’s hilarious.”

Severus nods and can’t help but think that parenthood looks good on Potter. Thirty minutes later, the boy is asleep in Potter’s arms, small hand clutching the neck of Potter’s jumper. “I’m going to put him down,” he says, standing, and Severus nods. He hears Potter singing softly as he walks down the hallway to James’s bedroom. 

Severus goes to the kitchen and gets two more beers. He’s rereading a section of the Gawain poem when Potter returns. “So you think that’s it then? We retrace Gawain’s footsteps, follow the spell?”

“I believe the magic will continue to play out, that people will continue to die, unless the spell is resolved once more in the manner originally intended.”

Potter runs a hand through his hair, takes a long sip of his beer. “The testing a of a hero.”

“Yes.”

“Good thing we know a few of those.”

***

When it becomes clear what they must do, Potter wants to leave straight away. He’s always been one to dive headfirst, to plunge himself in up to the elbows. But timing is important here, so they will wait until Boxing Day. 

In the meantime, there is much to do. Severus has exams to administer and marking to finish. There are faculty meetings and end of year tasks to attend to. Severus sees those students leaving for the holiday to the train and takes meals in the Great Hall with those students who remain. Minerva’s sister is visiting from Glasgow, and Madame Maxime, the headmistress of Beauxbatons, is staying with Hagrid for the holidays. Severus finds himself wishing Aurora’s family did not live two continents away; he would never admit it to her, but he misses her conversation over dinner and needs something to distract him from thoughts of Potter.

On Christmas morning, his Floo buzzes. Severus is seated in his chair by the fire, _Sir Gawain_ open on his lap. Potter’s head appears in the flames. “Is this a good time? Mind if we come through for a bit?”

Severus nods and opens the connection. A moment later, Potter, son on one hip, steps out onto his hearth. He grins. “Ten years of practice and I still feel like I’ve accomplished something when I manage that without tripping.”

Severus hides his smile behind the lip of his teacup. “Yes, well, despite your mildly impressive resume, you’ll never be accused of being the most graceful of wizards.”

“No, likely not.” The man’s face is flushed from cold, his cheeks a lovely pink. And Severus hates the way he notices this. Hates the way Potter’s appearance in his rooms warms his blood more than the fire ever could. Potter is dressed impeccably. Tailored suit and pressed white shirt. Blue silk tie knotted neatly at his throat. The boy is smartly dressed as well. Small black trousers held up by red suspenders. His feet covered in red and green socks. “We just wanted to say hello,” Potter says after a moment. “And wish you a happy Christmas.”

“Thank you,” Severus says. “Would you like a drink?”

Potter nods. “Yes, please. A small one though. We’re headed to Molly’s for Christmas lunch. Don’t have long.”

Severus goes to the sideboard, pours two glasses of whisky. Potter puts James down, procures a small car from his pocket and hands it to him. The child giggles and begins to push it across the rug. Severus takes a sip of his drink. Sees that Potter is watching him. 

“I thought maybe we could have dinner tonight.” Potter looks down, drags the toe of his no doubt expensive leather shoe in an arc across the floor. “James is going home with Gin for the next few days—obviously—and I thought we should discuss the case a bit more since we’ll leave tomorrow.”

Severus doesn’t need an excuse, a reason to see the man. But he doesn’t need him to know that either. “Of course. You can come to my rooms whenever you’re done with your family.”

Potter smiles, drains the rest of his glass, and scoops up his son. “Okay.”

***

They land at the same spot they’d Apparated to previously. But instead of heading down the embankment to the cave, to where the bodies were found, they head north. It is cold. Snow covers the ground. Severus wants to reach out, to touch Potter’s arm, the small of his back, but he does not. The forest is thick with trees here, bare branches stretching towards the slate grey sky. Severus feels the magic. It is old and wild.

They walk for twenty minutes or so and then Potter stops. “This is the place. It has to be.”

“Yes,” Severus agrees. “In the poem, Sir Gawain prays to the Virgin Mary and the castle appears.”

“His own brand of wish magic?” Potter says.

“I think so.”

“Well, let’s give it a go.” Potter stops and closes his eyes. Severus feels the press of his magic, his power. It’s familiar now, soothing. There’s a faint pulse as Potter’s spell ripples outwards and then, in front of them, as though it were there all along, is the castle.

“Well done,” Severus says, voice quieter than he intends. 

Potter nods, shifts the messenger bag he’s carrying to his other shoulder.

Just as the poem describes, the castle is surrounded by a deep moat and stands on sprawling green grounds. It is not winter here. The trees are thick with leaves. Sunlight glints off the water, shimmers against the smooth stone of the castle’s walls. A single watchman stands atop the guard tower.

“Hello!” Potter calls out. “Would you mind asking your lord if we might have a room for the night?”

The man lifts the visor on his helmet to peer down at them. After a moment he nods and replies: “For two heroes such as yourselves? I do not think you’ll want for welcome here.”

He disappears and Severus hears Potter exhale. He reaches out, lets his fingers brush against Potter’s briefly. Potter turns, looks up at him with a smile. “Are you ready for this?”

“I most certainly am not.”

At that, Potter laughs. “Well, that makes two of us.“

The guard returns, accompanied by two porters. The drawbridge is lowered and one attendant takes the small duffle Severus carries.

Once inside, they are led to a great hall where a fire burns brightly. Their host greets them there, and even though Severus, theoretically, knows what to expect, it still causes his breath to catch in his lungs.

Sir Bertilak is a large man. His beard is as red as the flames that blaze in the hearth. And he’s dressed as one might expect a medieval king to dress, his deep purple robes embroidered in gold. “Welcome,” he says. “While you’re guests in my house you may have whatever is within my power to give.”

A feast is laid out, just as the text suggests it will be. The magic of the castle provides every bit as well as the Hogwarts elves do. Wine is poured, tureens of soup and platters of meat and vegetables are brought out. There is warm bread and freshly churned butter with herbs.

Potter is practically vibrating with nervous energy. Severus places a hand on his knee, stilling it, feels Potter’s magic against his palm. 

“So, do we eat?” Potter asks under his breath. “Or is this a story like Persephone’s where we won’t be able to go back?”

“No,” Severus says. “Or,” he frowns, “at least, I hope not. We are not in the world of the dead.” He does not add _not yet_ or _not anymore…_. These are, after all, understood, and that is not the part of his story he’s concerned about.

Potter nods, but Severus sees him draw his wand beneath the table. The man casts a series of detection spells. The amount of magic he has with a flick of his wrist, a whisper of breath makes Severus’s pulse race. “I think you’re right,” Potter says after a moment. “Or, at least, there’s nothing binding here that I can feel.”

He nods, picks up his wine and takes a sip. Potter does the same. “So here we go.” 

“So here we go,” Severus agrees, bringing his goblet to his lips again.

Sir Bertilak stands and offers a toast: “To my guests,” he says. “Please drink and eat your fill.” Later he comes down to where they are seated, a beautiful woman at his side. “Severus Snape and Harry Potter, I am honoured to have you at my table. Tonight you will sleep well and tomorrow you will enjoy all the luxuries my castle has to offer. But first, let me introduce my wife.” The woman bows her head, extends a hand in greeting. Potter takes it, presses his lips to pale skin. Severus watches his mouth, tries not to notice the curve of his cheek, the line of his throat.

Lady Bertilak is lovely, but of course she is. Gawain described her as more beautiful than Guinevere herself. And the thought of what must come next sickens Severus.

***

After dinner, they are shown to their rooms. They are modestly sized but lavishly appointed. There is a small sitting area where a fire burns brightly. The floors are covered with carpets and thick furs, and the bed—intricately carved out of stained oak—is hung with rich curtains. The drapes are drawn back from the window, filling the room with silver light from the half moon.

Their bags are waiting for them on the chest at the end of the bed. The servant who brought them here instructs them to ask, if they need anything at all. Then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Potter stretches his arms above his head, twists from side to side. Severus’s eyes do not fall to the pale slice of skin exposed at his waist. “Do you think there’s running water?” Potter asks. “I could go for a shower.”

“My guess is yes,” Severus says. “The magic here is every bit as intricate as Hogwarts’s. I’d venture to say the plumbing has been updated similarly.” 

“Brilliant.” Potter takes a pair of flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt out of his bag before disappearing into the bathroom. After a moment, Severus hears the rush of water from the shower.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. The mattress is feather, not straw, and the sheets are a fine linen. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. Tomorrow, if all goes according to script—if the story continues as told—Sir Bertilak will ask them why they are there and how long they can stay. They will tell him about the Green Knight and their meeting at the Green Chapel. He will reveal what they already know—that the chapel is a mere two miles from here. And the testing of the hero will begin.

The water shuts off. Potter emerges. He’s bare-chested, dabbing a towel to his wet hair. His flannel sleep pants are adorned with what appears to be multi-coloured hippogriffs. He tosses the towel on the end of the bed and pulls on his t-shirt.

He sits down beside Severus. “That felt great.”

Severus nods. “I’m glad.” He looks down, clasps his hands between his knees. “Do you know what happens next?”

“I think so. We will be tested. Sir Gawain was spared because he proved himself worthy. He upheld the oath he took to return in a year, to allow the Green Knight his promised axe stroke. He survived the physical challenges that he faced on his journey from Camelot and managed to locate the Green Knight. And he did not allow himself to be seduced by Lady Bertilak.”

“Yes.” Severus nods. “We are also here willingly with intent to accept the Green Knight’s blow. We’ve passed the physical—or in our case magical—component of the quest and found the castle.”

“Which only leaves the temptation portion.”

Severus nods. “And I believe the magic here will amplify Lady Bertilak’s charms. Will make resisting her all the more difficult.”

Potter laughs. It’s not what Severus expects. He looks at him, confused.

“Come on Severus,” Potter says, voice gentle but still full of laughter. “Don’t you see? I don’t think Lady Bertilak will be the problem.”

He doesn’t understand. Potter places a hand on his back—a warm point on the curve of his spine. “Are you worried that Lady Bertilak will somehow seduce you?”

Severus frowns. “Well, no.”

“Exactly.” Potter smiles. “And why is that?”

Severus feels distinctively uncomfortable, ashamed. Potter once again has him off balance. “I’m not...women do not...” It’s hard to make his mouth form the words.

“Women don’t quite do it for you?” Potter fills in. But there is no ridicule in his voice. No scorn.

“No.” Severus’s mouth is dry. His cheeks are hot.

“Well, they don’t do it for me either,” Potter says.

Severus looks at him, still expecting a joke, expecting something other than the wry smile still curving his lips.

“I’m sorry?” After all, Potter likes women. He has a child. Regardless of what, at one time, Severus thought the boy might want, he ended up with the Weasley girl, fathered a son.

“Lady Bertilak is gorgeous,” Potter says carefully, “but I’m not interested.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Severus tries. “The castle’s magic will make you think you want her.”

“Perhaps,” Potter says, “but I honestly don’t think that’s the temptation we’ll face.”

“What do you mean?”

“You loved my mother once, didn’t you?”

“Yes...”

“Did you sleep with her?”

Severus shouldn’t answer. His relationship with Lily has nothing to do with her son. Still, he says, “No.”

A shadow of something crosses Potter’s expression briefly, but then it’s gone again. “But would you have? Had things been different—had she wanted to?” There is a note to his voice as though something depends on Severus’s answer, but Severus can’t quite decipher his tone.

“I don’t know.” There was a time, perhaps, when Severus would have answered differently. But it’s been years since he’s thought of Lily more than just in passing. After all, Severus has lived a lifetime since then; she was written out of his story long ago.

“Gin’s my best friend. I do love her. But we had sex because _she_ wanted to. And because...” Potter pauses, bites his lip. “Well, I’m not sure _I_ knew what I wanted. But that doesn’t mean I prefer women.”

Severus swallows. Then swallows again.

“Do you know how they say that, sometimes, what you’re looking for has really been there all along?”

Severus nods. Potter is watching him in that way that makes his mouth go dry. 

“Gawain was tempted by what appealed to him most. And I think the magic we’re dealing with here is sophisticated enough to know what will be the greatest test.”

He’s right. Severus doesn’t want to admit it, as doing so would be to admit what he’s tried so hard to ignore. But there’s a reason the poet notes that Gawain believes Lady Bertilak more beautiful than even Guinevere. The knight’s test must be great, and the lady must be most beautiful to show how intense the temptation will be. After all, Gawain will not risk betraying his code for anything less.

“Should I sleep on the couch?” Severus asks. Propriety demands as much without even considering the other aspects of their situation.

“Not tonight,” Potter says. “You need sleep.”

Severus, bone tired and out of sorts, can’t muster up the words to object.

***

Their host meets them at breakfast the following morning and, just Severus anticipates, asks why they have ventured so far from home in search of his castle.

“We seek the Green Knight in his Green Chapel,” Severus says, and Lord Bertilak nods. 

“And which of you has pledged to meet that vile villain?”

“I have.” Severus answers quickly, before Potter can volunteer for yet another act of misguided heroism. The man goes to object, but Severus puts a warning hand on his arm. They did not discuss this, but Severus knew they would likely have to declare their intention. Though they have joined the story _in medias res_ —no magical knight appeared in the Great Hall; no one challenged him to a Beheading Game—Severus knows it is crucial to follow the narrative. And the narrative involves one hero who is tested. One hero who risks his life. Potter has done enough world-saving to last a lifetime, and he saved Severus the last time he was mortally injured (a wound to the throat no less); it seems only appropriate that Severus’s neck is the one on the line. 

***

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Potter says. He’s sitting on the sofa in their room, arms folded across his chest, a mulish expression on his face. 

Severus feels a surge of indignation. After all, he might not be the hero here, but he has sacrificed himself for the greater good more than enough times in his lifetime to meet the requirements set out by the poem—by, he believes, Morgan herself. “Why?” He demands, voice sharper than he intends, but the man’s words struck a nerve. “Am I not courageous enough? I may not be the Boy Who Lived, saviour of us fucking all, but I damn well—”

“No.” Potter puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You are more than worthy. That’s not what I meant at all. I only mean that it’s my case.”

All the anger bleeds out of Severus in a single breath. He sits down on the side of the bed. “Your case that you have dragged me into.”

“True. But we should have at least talked about it.”

“We knew what to expect. We knew it would be one of us. It is better this way.” Severus does not say that he can’t bear to see the man risk his life when he can prevent it. He does not say that he will always _always_ protect him when he can. He does not say that his story should have ended multiple times over by now but Potter’s…Potter’s should continue on to epic lengths. Instead he says: “You can protect me. You understand the magic here better than anyone. You will keep me safe.”

“I will.”

“I know.”

Severus lays his head back against the pillows. A breeze blows the drapes back from the windows. It’s Christmastime, but the air feels like spring. Bluebells and bracken. Cherry blossoms and Lily of the Valley. The enchantment would put the Great Hall’s ceiling to shame. If only Albus could see it. Severus closes his eyes, pushes thoughts of Albus back to the corners of his mind.

Lord Bertilak did indeed propose the Game of Winnings. For the next three days, they will remain at the castle—three days like Gawain when he was tested before his fated meeting with the Green Knight. For three days, they will rest while Bertilak takes his hunting party out. Whatever he wins on the hunt will be Severus’s. In exchange, Severus will give Bertilak whatever he “wins” inside. 

Of course Severus agreed. This is not his story, after all. He’s only playing a part. 

***

“So you think those poor blokes just stumbled upon the Green Knight and this residual magic by chance?” Potter’s lying on his stomach on the bed, legs sprawled out behind, one elbow propped on a pillow. Severus hates how his eyes are drawn to him like moths to a light. The man is a fucking painting. All careless beauty and perfect lines. “Seems unlikely, doesn’t it? Not much around here.”

“Yes, but the magic is strong. I think it has its way of drawing wizards. After all, it _wants_ to be fulfilled.” 

“Right. And my poor victims had no clue what they were walking into. They wouldn’t have known how to fulfil the spell’s expectations...even if they were qualified to do so.”

“No,” Severus agrees. “Likely not.”

The man flops down, cradles his head on his arm. “Hell, I didn’t know what do. I just knew that I needed to put up those dampening and containment spells.”

“You are assuredly one of the only few people capable of casting such spells.” Potter’s magic has always been exceptional. The rawness, the sheer power of it is beautiful. But now there is a precision, a focus to his spellwork that takes Severus’s breath away. He knows, if he let himself, he could become addicted to the feel of his power.

“You could have,” Potter says.

“Yes.” He does not deny it. “And Kingsley, Minerva… But had another Auror initially responded to the murders.”

“I know.” Potter’s voice is grave. “Ron would have known enough to get the hell out of there, even if he couldn’t set the containment spells. But had it been anyone else…” He shakes his head. “Guess it’s a good thing Robards sends me out on any case he deems remotely dangerous. And,” he turns to Severus, “that I had the good sense to call you.”

“Yes.”

***

There is wine with dinner. And plates of cured meats and cheese. Pitted olives and fruits with honey. The main course is fish prepared with herbs and butter, served alongside greens and boiled potatoes. 

Afterwards, they return to their rooms. Lord Bertilak will leave at dawn with his hunting party and, then, the next phase of the test will officially begin. Severus feels the certainty of that like a stone in his stomach. A snare set to catch. He hadn’t eaten much. The food tasted of ash; the wine soured in his stomach. 

Potter, on the other hand, is drunk. His eyes are bright, cheeks pink with alcohol. Potter’s skin is like a line of poetry, lyrical and sweet. Severus wants nothing more than to touch him. To feel him beneath his hands. 

“I can’t get over the magic here,” Potter says, sitting down on the floor by the fire. He’s toed off his trainers; his back rests against the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him. 

Severus knows Potter is enamoured with magic. Knows that the man wants to know as much about it as he can. To breathe it in, devour it whole. Pick its meat from the bone. Sop it up like a sponge. And he knows that Potter is more powerful than, perhaps, Potter even knows. “Magical loops and echoes are common enough,” he says, “and when the original spellwork is strong, the magic can manifest itself again in startling and, sometimes, powerful ways. But I’ve never seen anything like this.” He gestures around. “This castle. The grounds. The Lord and Lady Bertilak. They are _exactly_ as you described. And the ‘games’…” He holds up his fingers, makes quotation marks in the air. “Just wow. I’ll admit I hardly believed it. It sounds like something out of some sort of ridiculous…” he stops, searching for the words.

“Medieval romance?” Severus supplies. 

“Yeah.”

“But it’s older than that. The three games depicted in _Sir Gawain_ —the Beheading Game, Exchange of Winnings, and the Temptation Game—all have roots back to ancient folklore.”

“Which makes sense,” Potter says, “since Morgan le Fay wove the magic that tested Gawain. This magic is centuries older than the story.” He rubs a hand across his hair; Severus likes the way it stands on end. “Man, she was good. If we weren’t about to, you know…” he draws a finger across his neck, makes a sound through his teeth. “I’d love to run more detection spells.”

Severus can’t help but bring a hand to his throat, trace the scars there. They’ve cast as much exploratory magic as Severus feels safe. Any more could upset the spellwork they’re relying on to close the loop, stop the murders. “Do try to restrain yourself.”

Potter grins.

Potter takes a shower. He prefers to shower before bed; whereas, Severus has always taken one first thing in the morning. 

“I like to wash the day off,” the man had said, the night before.

Now he emerges from the bathroom, flushed and scrubbed pink, a towel around his waist, another in his hand. Severus tries not to watch as he rubs water from his hair. The man’s chest is smooth, his shoulders broad. In the candlelight, his skin looks like honey. 

Severus looks away. Feels heat in his cheeks that has nothing to do with the fire.

“You can look, you know.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. Tosses one towel on the floor, reaches for his sleep pants. “I don’t mind.”

“I’m not...” Severus stares at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Severus doesn’t watch as Potter pulls his pants on, stands once more. But then he is in front of him. “I like it,” Potter says, voice soft. “That you watch me.” Slowly he reaches out, takes Severus’s hand in his. He pulls Severus towards him, presses his palm to his chest. Potter’s skin is warm, still damp from the shower. Severus feels the inhale, exhale of his breaths, the steady thrum of his heart. He feels the pulse of Potter’s magic beneath his fingertips. It causes his throat to tighten. His own skin to heat. Gently Potter pulls his hand down, across the muscled plane of his chest to the smooth flatness of his belly. Severus’s fingers itch. His skin pricks as if before a storm.

“I...”

Potter brings his hand to his hip, steps towards him. Severus finds his other hand at Potter’s waist. Potter moves closer still. He can smell the sharp, clean scent of his soap, can feel the warmth of Potter’s body against his. “There’s always been something between us,” Potter says, words a soft, low. “I think you know that.”

Severus exhales, forces himself to stand perfectly still.

“Clear back to fifth year, really. God, I hated you but… _fuck_.”

Severus steps back. His horror must show in his expression because Potter laughs. “No, no, that’s not what I mean.” He purses his lips. “Not really, at least.”

“Then what do you mean?” 

“Occlumency. _Fuck_ Severus, you have to know how intimate that feels. And your magic.”

Severus understands. It had made him physically ill when Albus instructed him to teach the boy mind magic. Such spells are invasive at best. But what was required of him, of Potter when attempting to shield his mind from the Dark Lord… “I know.” Severus moves to the sofa, sits down heavily. “I never should have performed that magic on you.”

Potter sits next to him. “You didn’t have a choice. My mind magic’s still shit, but if you hadn’t taught me what you did, well…” He reaches out, takes Severus’s hand in his. His fingers are calloused, his hand warm.

“It may have been necessary, but it was still inappropriate.”

“Maybe, but you have to admit there was something there. Your magic…”

Potter’s own magic is like a siren song. Familiar now. Tainted with dark. But so damn appealing Severus wants to plunge right in. Dive overboard and swim towards it, heedless and wanting—even if it chews him up and leaves him broken and bleeding in its wake. 

***

Severus does not sleep well. He never has, though. Not really. He has fought in two wars. Has seen and done unspeakable things. It’s the curse of a soldier, he supposes—always steeped in grief, in guilt. Plagued by nightmares of what has been and what could be.

Potter, snoring softly beside him, does nothing to improve the situation. Severus watches him. The fire burns low in the grate, casts soft, golden shadows across his face. He knows he could get used to the weight of the man’s body beside him, the warmth of his skin. But he also knows it’s foolish to think a man like him could end up with someone like Potter. Stories aren’t written that way.

***

They wake to fresh pastries and fruit, cheese and honey. Potter sits by the window. Sunlight on his cheeks, breeze in his hair. He hasn’t dressed. His feet are bare, his t-shirt soft and worn. There’s a hole at the sleeve, another on the neckline. “So,” he says, mouth full of croissant, “what should we do today?”

“I think this castle has a library.”

Severus spends the morning reading. Lord Bertilak’s library is not particularly large, but it has a fine assortment of texts. There are period Romances and selections of poetry; there are histories and religious works. He selects a slim volume of Sappho’s poems and sits in the high back armchair by the fire. Potter has brought work with him. He sits on the floor, a case file spread out on the rug before him. 

Severus still half expects Lady Bertilak to appear at any moment to begin the trial in proper. But instead there’s just Potter. Potter’s whose magic is coiled tightly like a spring. It hangs in the air like electricity. It thrums beneath Potter’s skin, and crackles in the space between them. He wants to reach out and touch him, but he’s not sure he can. 

Still, there is something lurking around the edges, something that clouds Severus’s head as he sits here beside him, while he lies in bed at night. He knows now that there is something here, hovering in the spaces in between. But he’s not sure what that means yet. 

They do, finally, see Lady Bertilak as they walk to the kitchens for lunch. She is sitting in her parlour with two of her handmaidens, her needlepoint spread out upon her lap. They pause in their conversation and she smiles. One girl blushes faintly, ducks her head when she sees Potter watching, but no one makes a move to stand. Severus knows Lady Bertilak is not part of his version of the story. There will be no seduction—no iconic temptation scene. (The lady pursues Sir Gawain as her husband pursues the deer, the boar, the fox.) Severus should be pleased—and he is. But only that he will not have to watch Lady Bertilak make advances on Potter. That alone had troubled him. But now, now that he’s committed to playing the part of the hero, he cannot help but admit that the far more dangerous test is standing by his side. He and Potter, both, have known this now for some time. He’s acknowledged—if not accepted—the implications.

The realisation doesn’t seem to bother Potter at all. 

_‘The thread will run smooth, if left alone,’_ he had said the previous morning. _‘There is no reason to unravel it or knot it with your own fingers.’_

At first, Severus hadn’t understood what he meant, but now, he thinks it’s becoming clear.

 _Sometimes, what you want has been there all along._

After lunch, they take a walk about the grounds. The air is warm, the sky a pale blue. The sit beneath a copse of trees. Potter lies back on the grass, rests his head on his arms. “Do you think it’s the same spell?” he says. “That maintains the enchantment? The magic Morgan Le Fey used to test Gawain.” Potter is looking up above them. Severus follows his gaze, as if to see a dome covering them, outside of which is the Midlands winter. But there is nothing but leaf-laden branches criss-crossing a sun blanched sky. “Or is it separate magic—a containment spell that’s maintaining the castle and its grounds? A necessity of the original spell now that it’s been reborn, but not part of her original latticework.”

“I’m not sure,” Severus admits. Though he has thought much about the intricacies of the magic here, he has few answers.

“Do you think it’d be all right if I poke around a bit?” Potter is still staring at the sky, lips pursed, brow furrowed.

Severus nods but doesn’t have time to say anything because Potter sits up and begins speaking softly, reeling off incantation after incantation. He didn’t bother to draw his wand. Severus is once again impressed by the sheer amount of magic he has at his disposal. He loves listening to the man talk about magic—watching him perform it is another matter entirely.

It soon becomes clear, though, that the sky holds no answers to the castle’s enchantments.

“Huh,” Potter says, reciting one more spell for good measure. He’s not even out of breath. “Well, I guess that about does it...unless you have another suggestion?”

Severus laughs. “No, I think that rather extraordinary display covers it.”

Potter shrugs, then leans back on his elbows. “It’s probably for the best. Wouldn’t want to accidentally unravel something. You never know with old magic.”

“No,” Severus agrees.

Potter is quiet for a few minutes. His face is calm but Severus knows he’s frustrated—the magic here—while palpable and undeniably strong—is strangely unreadable, and that’s not something he is used to. After all, Potter is accustomed to magic doing exactly as he wants.

Potter rolls to the side then, and takes Severus’s hand in his. His palm is rough, calloused from work and wand. And while the gesture is simple—hardly a footnote if considered out of context—Severus knows it is one of the singular most remarkable things he can recall. It is startling how one small press of skin can knock him off kilter, force the air from his lungs. 

Potter laces their fingers together, looks down at where their hands are joined. “Does this count? Something won? Something to exchange?”

Severus thinks for a moment because, on the surface, no. In another story—in _most_ stories—you wouldn’t consider something so simple, so commonplace, to be any type of victory at all. But this is not another story. And he cannot deny the significance of Potter’s hand in his. 

“Yes.”

_Sometimes what you’re looking for has been there all along._

“And isn’t the entire thing absurd?” Potter says then with a warm laugh. He does not let go of Severus’s hand. “An ‘Exchange of Winnings.’ Who in Merlin’s name came up with such a thing in the first place?”

“It’s Germanic, I think. Part of an old folk tale.”

Potter nods. “Makes me wonder how much of this story, this magic, was created by Morgan le Fey, and how much has taken on a life of its own through both the poet’s retelling of Morgan’s test of Gawain and the subsequent re-emergence and reiterations of the original magic.”

It’s a good question, but this does not surprise Severus. Potter’s grasp of magical theory is the best he’s seen—save, perhaps, Albus’s. “The Temptation and the Beheading Games have clear origins in ancient Celtic legends.”

“So it makes sense that she used it in her magic.”

“Yes. And now we have to play all three since the spellwork—original or not—has undoubtedly incorporated each motif into its current manifestation.” Severus lets go of Potter’s hand and stands. “Come. It’s getting late. The hunting party will return soon. We should go.”

***

At dinner, Severus thanks Lord Bertilak for his hospitality and quickly takes his hand, threads their fingers together, and squeezes once, gently. “Hmm,” Lord Bertilak says, as Severus has stepped away again, “hardly a worthy exchange for the venison I’ve supplied. But it will have to do. Please, enjoy the meal.”

The food is delicious. In addition to the freshly caught and perfectly prepared meat, there are root vegetables in butter and greens with lemon. There is warm bread pudding and wine, so much wine. 

***

Potter is drunk. Loose lipped and rosy cheeked. 

“You know, Snape,” he says when they get back to their rooms, “I’m beginning to understand the contradictions chivalry demanded of Gawain.”

“What do you mean?” Severus sits down on the sofa, unlaces his boots.

“The entire temptation thing? It’s ridiculous.” He waves a hand, conjures a glass of water from god knows where. “While Lady Bertilak attempts to seduce Gawain, he must—one,” Potter holds up a finger, “remain loyal and honourable to his host.” He takes a sip of his water. “So fucking said host’s wife is obviously out. Two,” he raises a second finger. “He must remain virtuous. So, again, adultery isn’t a good choice. And three, he must be charming and, somehow, not insult the lady while still refusing her.”

“Yes…” Severus says, not entirely sure what Potter is getting at. “The two chivalric imperatives—Gawain’s code of chivalry which requires him to be honourable, chaste, and true, and his code of courtly love, which essentially requires him to do whatever a lady asks—are clearly contradictory. Hence the criticism of the expectations chivalry demanded of its knights.”

“Exactly,” Potter says, setting his now empty glass down. “As I said, I understand.”

Severus frowns. He doesn’t. 

“I want you, Snape. And, I think, you want me too. But I can’t have you—not now at least—because you’ll fail the test and get your head chopped off.” He pauses, looks at Severus. “Or, more likely, I’ll Apparate us both of out of here and someone else will get their head chopped off. And I really should solve this case.”

Severus needs another drink. He only had one glass of wine with dinner and now, suddenly, desperately, he wishes he’d had as much as Potter. He reaches for his bag beneath the bed and finds the flask in there. He takes a long sip of whisky, enjoying the burn of alcohol in his throat, his stomach. He holds it up to Potter, but the man shakes his head.

“And why the temptation component, anyhow? I mean, what an obsolete and, frankly, insulting idea.” Potter sits, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Not to mention that it feels rather…contrived, or, at least, inauthentic.” He stands again, begins pacing in front of the fire. He’s rarely still. Severus knows this—has always known this—that Potter is in constant motion, all magic and pent up energy. And Severus enjoys watching him move almost as much as he enjoys listening to him. To the cadence of his speech. The rise and fall of each word. 

“After all, you’re going to pass this damn test. Fulfil the requirements. But that doesn’t mean either of us is actually pure. Right? I mean, I had a kid when I was nineteen. And you…” He stops, chews on his lip. 

“Perhaps Morgan appreciated the symbolic aspect of her ordeal,” Severus says before Potter can actually question him about his past, about his prior relationships. “Though,” he continues, “Gawain was undoubtedly chaste and pure—the epitome of the chivalric knight. His comportment, his actions in the poem were representative of his life in whole.”

“Still strikes me as weird.”

Severus can’t disagree. 

***

“Do you know what really tempts me?” Potter says softly. “What really turns me on?”

They are in bed, lying side by side. Closer than perhaps necessary. Not as close as Severus would perhaps like. Potter holds his hand in his, fingers warm and sure against his skin. They have done nothing that would so much as elicit a raised eyebrow from Lord Bertilak. Nothing Severus will be uncomfortable exchanging. Still...

Severus had thought he’d fallen asleep. “No.”

“Magic.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Potter’s voice is low, softly erotic. It makes Severus’s stomach tighten.

“When we get out of here, we should duel.”

“We’ve duelled before.”

He hears Potter swallow. His fingers tighten against his. “I know.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, “Severus, do you remember how our magic feels? Together?”

Severus does. He has duelled more people in his life than he can count, yet he knows Potter’s magic like the back of his hand, like the potions he brews, like his own favourite spells. “I like it when you call me Severus.”

“Okay.” The man shifts, turns to face him in the dark. “You should call me Harry.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead Potter— _Harry_ leans forward, mouth finding Severus’s. Harry’s lips are warm, soft. Severus opens his mouth against his, groans when his tongue slips inside, runs against his teeth. Then Harry’s hand slides down. Cups his cock—half hard and already aching—for a brief moment, before pulling away. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes against his cheek before rolling over, pressing his back against Severus’s side to fall asleep.

***

“It’s not the magic, you know, that’s making me want you.”

“Pardon?” Severus looks up from the book he’s reading—an old copy of Chrétien de Troyes’s _Perceval_ he found in the bureau. Severus’s French is admittedly rusty, so it’s been slow going. 

Potter—Harry now?—is looking at him, lips parted slightly. He cocks his head to one side. “I mean, we’ve established that the magic here is remarkable. But it’s not compulsory.”

He’s right. All their reading and research—not to mention the comprehensive array of detection spells Potter has cast—suggests the same thing: The magic in the castle is designed to work on pre-existing tendencies. There is nothing overtly malignant here. Nothing that propels. 

As unsettling as the notion might be, he cannot deny that the spell has accurately assessed his...inclinations. If it weren’t so disconcerting, if it weren’t something he was not—might never have been—ready to admit, he would again be impressed by the intricacy, the complexity of this spell. This spell that was designed and cast centuries ago. 

“No,” Severus agrees. “I don’t think it is.”

“Good,” Harry says, turning back to the case work he has spread out across the floor. “I need you know that. And, when we get out of here—once the magic is gone—and I ask you out, it’s because I want to. It won’t be some lingering after-effect of the spellwork.”

***

They are back outside. This time they’re walking along the moat’s edge. Again this morning, Lord Bertilak left at first light with his hunting party. Again Severus is pledged to exchange whatever he gains at the castle for what the lord brings home from his hunt.

It smells like damp earth out here, and it smells like magic. The air is electric with it. Severus can feel it in his bloodstream; it raises goose bumps on his skin. He wonders if Harry notices the sheer amount of power surrounding him; the man practically exudes it.

He wants to hold his hand. He wants to push him down to the ground and kiss him until they’re both breathless and wanting. But he does neither of these things. Instead they walk back to the castle and sit on the smooth stone steps of the entryway. 

Harry smiles, looking at Severus. There is something in his expression that unnerves him. 

“What?” he asks, feeling uncomfortable, on display.

“Nothing.” The man leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “It’s just…you seem happy. It’s nice to see.”

Severus could say that’s absurd. After all, they are, for all intents and purposes, prisoners in an enchanted castle. They are being tested to an antiquated and archaic standard and, should they fail—or should any of a number of all too likely things go wrong with the spellwork, the magic—he will die. But that wouldn’t be the truth. 

“Yes.”

He nods. “Good. I thought so.” Harry kisses him then. It’s only the second time they’ve kissed, but Severus still doesn’t think it should feel so groundbreaking. 

***

That evening Severus exchanges two chaste kisses for the feast Lord Bertilak provides. 

Harry is laughing when he sits down at the table beside him. “What?” Severus asks.

“It’s just, I mean—” he wipes at his eyes, “have I mentioned how ridiculous this entire thing is?”

Severus hides his smile behind the lip of his wine goblet. “Perhaps once or twice.”

Harry is still laughing. “Okay, good. As long as you know.”

After dinner, Harry pulls him aside in one of the long corridors leading to their rooms. He presses Severus against the wall and kisses him. Severus’s hands fall to Harry’s waist, and Harry bites his lip, opens his mouth against his. Harry smells of clean sweat and the smoke from the fire, and his magic sparks hot against Severus’s skin. It’s enough to take his breath away. 

Severus has been with men before, but not very many and it was never, _never_ like this. Harry kisses as though he’s drowning, fingers clutching at his arms hard enough to leave bruises, and Severus is already hard.

Harry is hard too. Severus feels his prick as the man rocks up against him. It makes his stomach clench and his heart pound. 

“We can’t,” he manages, pulling away. Harry slides his tongue along the shell of his ear. “The game.”

“I know,” Harry says, “but it’s just a kiss. And it doesn’t count now anyway. Lord Bertilak is home. You only pledged to exchange winnings while he is out hunting. As Sir Gawain did.”

Technically it’s true, but Severus probably shouldn’t risk his head on a technicality. Harry kisses him again, then steps back. “But you’re right. We should go back.”

His hand falls to the bulge at his crotch; Severus can’t help but watch as he readjusts himself. Harry’s cheeks are flushed, his mouth red and swollen. He’s breathtaking, and Severus realises he can’t remember ever feeling this way about someone. It’s unsettling.

Later, when they are in bed, Harry presses his mouth to Severus’s throat. “I would suck you off.” His voice is low, but it cuts through the quiet of the room. “If it weren’t for...well, you know.”

Severus swallows thickly. “Yes.” They lie side by side. Severus is distinctly aware of where their bodies touch. The heat of Harry’s shoulder, his elbow, his hip.

“I want to take you in my mouth. You’re hard...I know you are. I’d like to feel you with my tongue.” Harry’s hand takes his beneath the covers. His fingers are warm, strong. “It will feel so good.” 

Severus aches. He cannot recall a time he’s wanted something this much.

Harry squeezes his hand once before slipping from the bed. Severus turns to look at the man as he stands there for a moment, golden skin illuminated by the pale light of the moon. Severus can’t help that his gaze is drawn to his erection, clearly outlined beneath the thin fabric of his sleep pants. 

Harry laughs, a low, rough sound. “Yeah, well, that’s why…” He shrugs. “I just need a minute, otherwise I’m worried I might bollocks up the whole thing.” He disappears into the bathroom, door shutting behind him with a soft snick. 

Severus takes a deep breath, then another. Tries to focus on the inhalation, exhalation of air from his lungs and not the arousal cresting within. It threatens to send him over the edge, leave Severus scrabbling and clinging and trying desperately not to drown. 

He does not think of Harry, one room away, back pressed to the door, pants around his thighs. No, that’s a lie. The image is razor-sharp, seared bright across his mind’s eye. Harry Potter with his head thrown back, one hand around his cock. Severus sees the flush that spreads down his throat, splashes across his chest. He thinks, if he listens closely—quiets the obscene pounding of his own heart—he could hear the quickness of Harry’s breaths, the way he bites back a moan. And then—yes—the sharp, soft cry as he comes. 

Severus’s own cock is throbbing. He wants to take the traitorous thing in his hand, imagine Harry’s spunk-slick fingers stroking him fast and sure. It wouldn’t take long—he’s nearly there as it is—but he can’t. Not tonight. It would surely be some sort of violation, enough to void the terms. Potter is immune. It’s Severus, after all, who volunteered to play this foolish game. Save the brat from himself once again.

Harry comes back to bed, flops down beside him, limbs spread like a jellyfish. Severus should feel crowded, claustrophobic, here with the man’s arm across his chest, his leg pressed against his, but he does not.

“Feel better?” he asks, trying to force his voice steady, still he sounds breathless...aroused.

Potter laughs. “Yes, a bit.” The words come easily to him. They are not stilted, not awkward, and Severus hates that this is yet another thing he finds so damn appealing about the man—his endless self-assurance and ease.

Severus does not masturbate often. The brief moments of pleasure are quickly outweighed by the guilt, the shame—a legacy of his religious upbringing, his mother’s, his grandmother’s Roman Catholicism clouding his sensibilities all these years later. 

“You could have at least let me watch,” he says, pleased his voice doesn’t shake. 

“Would you like that?” And there, just under the surface, Severus can hear the want. It’s nearly enough to undo him. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Yes, Potter, fuck indeed.”

It is a long time before he falls asleep.

***

The following morning, they walk to a small lake behind the castle. 

For a moment, Severus imagines fucking the man right here, pressing him back against the cool earth, feeling the grit of sand beneath his stained fingernails. _Be careful..._ he tells himself. But he hasn’t been careful. No. How else can you explain what he’s doing here at all? And he has always known if he fell for Potter he’d never be able to pick himself up again.

He stands. Says nothing as he brushes dirt from his trousers and turns to head towards the enchanted castle. He doesn’t have to look to know Harry is there. He feels him like a phantom limb, like a part of himself he never knew existed until now.

One more day. He only has to survive one more day before he can return to his dungeons and the way things are supposed to be.

As they walk back to their rooms, Severus realises he does not know what he means by that. Survive the magic and the Green Knight’s impending axe blow, or survive Potter? He thinks, perhaps, it’s the latter. After all, the man is clearly going to be the ruin of him.

***

Severus wakes early. He can’t help it; he’s agreed to die today. 

He searches the room. The poem is clear: Sir Gawain receives a girdle of protection from Lady Bertilak. A green sash Gawain takes home to Camelot as a symbol of his shame. But instead his fellow knights rejoice—of course they do—and the green girdle is hung from the halls, a symbol of his victory and triumph over death. 

Severus has been offered no such item. 

He looks in the drawers. In the bureau. Under the bed. There is nothing. 

He considers shaking Harry awake. Apparating them both back to Hogwarts. After all, this is ridiculous. He is not a bloody knight and despite prior actions, he’s never had any desire to play the hero. Perhaps there is another way to break the spell, to prevent more murders without offering up his own neck. 

He turns to see Harry looking at him. The man is tousled from sleep, gorgeous as the sunlight streaming through the windows. Severus’s throat is dry. 

“You okay?” Harry asks.

Severus shakes his head. Then Harry is there. “Hey,” his says softly, strong arms around Severus’s waist. “Hey…” Severus feels the calming thrum of his magic against his skin. “It will be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It’s funny, a year ago Severus could have honestly said he was ready to die. He has never been suicidal—it’s not as simple as that—but he was not supposed to make it through the war. He had come to terms with that certainty years ago. In the shack he was still afraid. The fear that pierced him in those few moments—before Nagini’s bite and after—went bone deep. But he accepted it. And it was all right.

But now...now he finds he desperately wants to live.

Severus forces himself to take a breath, and then another.

“Here,” Potter says, taking a step back. And then Severus feels it: layer upon layer of protective magic. It washes over his skin like water, like sunlight.

“It could affect the spell,” Severus says, “render us unworthy.”

“Maybe.” Harry shrugs. “But if that’s the case, I’m all right with it. We’ll find another way to stop the magic. I don’t think it will, though. Especially because you can offer Lord Bertilak the same spells.”

Severus nods. Takes another steadying breath. That’s true. In the poem, Sir Gawain betrayed the game by not revealing that he’d received the girdle from Lady Bertilak. After all, there was only the one, and he thought it could save his life. But giving protection magic to Lord Bertilak will not make the magic Harry has woven for him ineffective. “All right,” he says. “Let’s go.”

They accept the guide Lord Bertilak offers to lead them to the Green Chapel. They know the way, of course. But Sir Gawain needed an escort in the poem and it’s best to follow the story.

They are led off the grounds and back into winter. The cold air bites at Severus’s skin, whips through his hair. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks on to his doom. 

Severus hears the grating sound of an axe as they approach the hillside where the Green Knight’s cave awaits. It chills him more than the cold ever could.

Their guide does not wait to see what will happen next. He turns round and heads back towards the castle, as quickly as he can manoeuvre over snow and rock. Severus can’t say he blames him. Then Harry gasps and clutches Severus’s hand. The Green Knight is there, standing aside the crag, holding a huge axe. The weapon is at least four feet long, its blade bright and curved, filed as sharp as the edge will hold. But the axe is not half so dread-inducing as the Knight himself. He’s larger than any man Severus has seen, save Hagrid, of course. And he is indeed all green—just as the poem describes—from his face to his beard, his hands, and his clothes. He crosses the icy stream that separates them with one lithe leap.

“Friend,” the Knight says, “It seems you have kept your word. I owe you a blow and a blow you shall get.”

Harry stands tense beside him. He does not have his wand drawn, but Severus knows he is ready, any of a number of spells on his lips. The Green Knight appears not to notice him at all, but he’s the one who’s pledged himself to this ordeal, after all. 

Severus steps forwards. He bares his neck and closes his eyes, tries to focus on Harry’s presence beside him. _The soothing, silver-tinged flow of healing magic, staunching the blood, saving his life three years and a lifetime ago._ He does not tense as the Knight heaves the axe above his head. Does not flinch as he brings it down. One feint, then two. And now... The final swing. Severus holds his breath. He is no knight. And even Sir Gawain—the greatest of Arthur’s honourable men—couldn’t live up to all the paradoxical ideals chivalry demanded. No one could. Morgan’s absurd test reveals this, brings the whole bloody system to trial. And yet Severus, scarred and lacking, guilty of more sins than he can count, somehow thought he was up to the task. 

Three other men have lost their lives. Others, perhaps, if this isn’t the first time this magic has resurfaced.

He hears the whoosh of the blade, and then…

A sharp sting, the warmth of blood. But he is _alive_. 

He raises his head, steps back, touches his fingers to the cut at his neck. Harry has his wand drawn. “A blow you were promised, a blow I received. We are done.”

The Green Knight laughs. The enchantment falls away to reveal Lord Bertilak. “Why yes, friend, we are. I owed you a hit and you have it. Thank you for fulfilling your bargain and for…” he stops looks past them into the broad expanse of forest, “and for satisfying the magic.” And with that, he disappears, axe and all. 

“We did it.” Only now does Severus realise he is shaking. But Harry is there with a steadying arm. The old magic that hung so thick in the air is already fading. Severus feels it seeping back into the ground, deep under earth and rock where it had been buried before, where it belongs. Severus can only hope that it won’t be during his lifetime should it resurface again. But the murders will stop for now. He has passed the test.

Harry reaches up to his neck, places his palm to his skin. The wash of healing magic brings back memories Severus would prefer forget, memories he thinks of far to often. But the wound is only superficial this time around. He is not dying.

Harry pulls his hand away. “You’ll still have a scar,” he says, voice soft.

“My neck has seen worse.”

Harry laughs, lifts his head to press warm lips to the ribbons of smooth scar tissue along the other side of his throat. “True.” Then Harry steps aside, stands as if listening. He takes his wand, casts one spell and another. “I think it’s done,” he says after a moment. “The magic will take a few days to dissipate, but the imbalance should right itself.”

“Yes,” Severus agrees. “Now let’s go home.”

***

Afterwards, once the case is solved—though there is no one to stand trial for the murders—once Severus is thrown back into his own story, he wonders if life will be simpler when he doesn’t have a script.

Severus returns to his rooms at Hogwarts. He sits by his fire, drinks a glass of his whisky, and realises that his story has come, yet again, to another beginning. A new beginning which, for the first time, he is looking forward to.

He imagines himself picking up a quill, starting a new chapter of his life. 

***

The following evening Harry’s head appears in his Floo—if he notices that Severus has set the wards to admit him he doesn’t mention it—he asks Severus to come round to dinner the following night. 

James sits in his high chair covered in spaghetti sauce. He dumps his water cup on the floor. His bowl joins it a few moments later. Severus stands beside Harry at the kitchen counter, drinking cold beer, watching as Harry ladles pasta onto two plates.

Later Harry puts James to sleep and they watch an old movie, hands twined together, Harry’s head on his shoulder.

And when they kiss, Severus knows that it has absolutely nothing to do with old magic or temptation games, with enchanted castles or solving murder cases. It’s just his fingers threaded through Harry’s dark hair, chapped lips moving softly against his.

***

Three days later Severus is in his lab, preparing the base for a potion his third years will be working on, when Harry’s Patronus bursts through the door. The stag glances around, looking ridiculously pleased with itself before taking a loop about the room. Severus watches it for a moment, arms folded across his chest. When it becomes clear that the thing is merely going to prance about and potentially pollute his completed potions with Potter magic, he clears his throat. The stag stops mid-step and turns.

“Yes, yes,” he says. “You’ve found me. Now did you have a message? Or are you just here to spy on my labs?”

The stag looks at him for moment as if remembering what exactly it’s here for. Then it opens its mouth and Harry’s voice spills out. “Remember when I said I’d like to blow you? I meant it. Can I see you tonight?”

Severus snorts. “Tell Harry yes, but you’re both lucky I’m not teaching at the moment. Otherwise, my answer would assuredly be different.

***

“I charmed it, you know,” Harry says, mouth full of samosa. “He wouldn’t have delivered _that_ message had you not been alone.”

Severus takes a sip of his wine. They’re at an Indian restaurant in Muggle London. James is with Ginevra for the remainder of the week. “So sure of your magic, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes.” Harry has the good grace to look mildly ashamed. “At least, I think so.”

Severus laughs, breaks off a piece of hot nan bread to dip in his dal. It’s spicy and delicious. “In the future, it might be best to keep such communications restricted to Floo or in person.”

“You’re probably right.” Harry finishes his beer. Signals the waiter for another. “But it worked, didn’t it? Got you to come out with me.”

“Mr. Potter, I do hope you know by now that I do not need promises of sexual favours to procure my company.”

The man wipes his mouth with his napkin. “True. I might try to restrain myself next time.”

“Might?” 

“Might.” 

*** 

When they get back to Harry’s flat, Harry takes Severus’s hand in his and leads him to the bedroom. He closes the door behind them and pushes Severus against it, kissing him roughly. Severus’s hands fall to his waist, to the curve of his arse. Harry opens his mouth, slides his tongue along Severus’s teeth. 

Severus is hard. He’d be embarrassed, but Harry is too. He feels his erection, insistent against his thigh. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, “fuck.” And then his hands are at Severus’s belt. 

His stomach swoops, tightens, as Harry undoes his buckle, as his fingers fumble with his flies. Severus kisses his neck, presses his mouth to the hollow of Harry’s throat. 

When they get into bed, Harry climbs on top and grinds against Severus until he comes. Then he takes Severus’s cock in his hand and jerks him off in short, quick tugs. 

Afterwards, they lie curled together, spunk cooling on their stomachs. Severus casts a cleaning charm. 

“Good idea that,” Harry says, voice softly slurred. “I couldn’t do magic now if I tried.”

The man is asleep within moments, sprawled halfway across Severus’s chest, mouth open, snoring gently.

***

Severus wakes to a mouth on his cock. He’s already hard…he thinks, perhaps, he’s always hard around this man. Harry’s dark head is between his thighs; his hand is stroking his own prick slowly. 

“You’re ‘wake,” Harry says, without lifting his head. “Said I’d blow you. Thought I’d make good.” He licks his tongue down the length of Severus’s erection, then up again to swirl around the head. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Severus finds the word. “Yes.”

He watches as Harry takes him into his mouth again; he bobs his head, swallowing around him, tongue moving slickly. He’s done this before. Severus shouldn’t find the thought arousing, but he does. “I’ll come,” he says. His voice is not his. It’s too high, too breathless. 

“Good,” Harry says around his cock. “That’s the point.”

Severus’s stomach is clenched, his head thrown back against the pillow. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve Harry, and yet, here he is. 

“Fuck, _fuck…_ ” And then he’s coming, Harry swallowing around his cock. 

Harry sits up then, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good, right? Always wanted to do that.”

He lies back down beside Severus, then, and promptly falls asleep. 

*** 

They start seeing each other more frequently. Harry will Floo to his rooms on nights when he does not have James. They sit opposite each other at Severus’s desk, Severus marking, Harry working on whatever case he’s brought along. Sometimes Severus opens a bottle of wine or pours some firewhisky. Other times they drink tea.

They eat dinner in Hogsmeade or in Diagon. 

Severus finds he’s quite fond of James. Sure, the child named after not one but _two_ of his childhood enemies should be a right terror. But instead the child is mild-mannered and sweet. Severus thinks he is precocious and clever—more clever than most children his age, surely. And if Severus now keeps a basket by his hearth filled with children’s books and toys, well, no one but Harry has to know. 

***

“Tonight, I think we should fuck.” 

They are sitting on the floor in front of Severus’s fire, a platter of cheese and fruit on the table between them. 

Severus takes a sip of wine. His, mouth, his throat is suddenly dry. “You are sure?”

“Of course I am.” Harry beams. “Been sure for weeks.”

Later, they go to Severus’s bedroom. The fire burns low in its grate. Severus is glad. He prefers to be cloaked in shadows as he undresses, folds his clothes, places them in the bureau. Harry, on the other hand, strips easily. He sits on the edge of the bed waiting, watching. 

The man is like a jewel. Severus wants to observe him from every angle, examine every facet of his body. Instead he sits down against the pillows, resists the urge to draw the blankets up, cover his exposed skin.

Harry moves beside him lithely, easily. Places a warm hand on Severus’s chest, presses a kiss to his throat, another to his cheek. 

“Have you done this before?” Severus asks, though he’s not sure why he wants to know.

Harry laughs, stretching out beside him. “Have you forgotten James? You know, the child that shows up at my flat every week or so. Looks quite a bit like me.”

Severus frowns. Looks down at him. Harry’s sprawled out on the covers, limbs carelessly splayed. He curls his hand loosely around his prick, begins stroking slowly. The casual ease of his posture, the openness of his expression is devastatingly beautiful. The man is fucking gorgeous.

Severus feels graceless, schoolboy awkward in comparison. Envious of the man’s poise, his self-confidence. But he is not ashamed. No, he will never be ashamed of wanting this.

“Oh,” Harry says after a moment, “you mean...” He trails off, looks between them and nods. “Yeah, a few times. Have you?”

Severus will not feel jealousy; he will not think of the other men Harry has been with. He only thinks about how he is here with him now.

“Yes. But it’s been a long time.”

“Okay.” Harry looks up at him. “What do you like? I’m pretty open, but tonight I’d really like you to fuck me.”

Severus nods. His throat is dry. He wants nothing more to be inside of him, to feel him all around him. Harry leans back; his legs fall open.

Severus takes the lubricant from the bedside drawer, lets it drip over his fingers. He traces a line down Harry’s thigh. Harry shifts, groans as Severus slips a finger inside. 

“Fuck,” he says, feels Harry tighten around him, slips another finger in. In all his years, he’s certain nothing has ever felt like this before. When Severus writes his story, this will be a chapter all to its own. He holds himself above Harry, and the man takes his cock in his hand, lines them up. He pushes in slowly. The feeling is so intense, so overwhelming, that Severus has to bite the inside of his mouth to distract himself. They’ve barely begun; he’s only an inch inside and already he feels as if he’s dying. Severus has imagined this moment before, but this is better.

Harry arches his back beneath him, reaching up to grip Severus’s arms. He wraps his legs round his, heels digging into his thighs. “Come on, do it. I want you to fuck me.”

Severus does, in long, deep thrusts, pulling out and sliding in again. The friction, the pressure, the movement sends waves of relief, of pleasure down his spine, over his body. It’s nearly too much. 

Harry talks during sex, too—Severus knew he would. He whispers things that make Severus blush, that send new tendrils of want coiling around his hips. _‘Yes, yes, like that, oh fuck, oh yeah…do it, make me come—’_

And Harry fists himself, pushing his hips up as Severus pushes into him. 

When Harry opens his mouth against Severus’s throat, teeth scraping against the line of scars there, he’s gone. He cries out as he comes, cock pulsing inside him. Severus is shaking as he pulls out, presses his forehead to Harry’s chest. 

Harry’s hand cups round his neck, slides down his spine. “Good,” he whispers, “so good.”

After a few long moments, he realises Harry has not come. He slips down between his legs, smells himself on Harry’s thighs as he takes his prick in his hand. He strokes it gently once, twice, before licking his tongue along the shaft. 

“Shit,” Harry gasps, “you don’t have to—”

But Severus is already taking him into his mouth, sliding his lips up and down, swallowing around him. 

“Oh, yeah,” Harry gasps, fingers curling in Severus’s hair, tugging sharply, and Severus swallows again, pulls back to swirl his tongue around the soft curve of cockhead. 

“More…please…”

Severus presses his tongue against the line of Harry’s cock as he slides his mouth down again. And then he feels him tense beneath him, stomach muscles tightening, breath catching. “Severus, I’m—” 

Severus swallows as Harry comes, the warm and bitter fluid pulsing over his tongue. 

After, they lie side-by-side. Severus listens to their breathing, feels the sweat cooling on his skin. Harry takes his hand in his, laces their fingers together. 

“Wow,” Harry says. “That was...wow.”

It was something worth including in Severus’s story, that’s for sure.

For so long, Severus envisioned his destiny like a noose around his neck, an axe above his head. But now...now, in bed beside Harry, he realises his story is not one of those stories at all.

No. Now the warm weight of the body beside him makes him feel grounded in an ocean of white sheets. It’s an anchor holding him to the flat of the earth. Now his story reads like pages upon pages of blank space. There is room for anything here. Romance, adventure, and perhaps even a paragraph or two of heroism.

Severus knows his story has reached yet another beginning, and he thinks here, curled against Harry, is just the right place to start.

**Author's Note:**

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